The Urges of the Night
by MudbludGranger
Summary: The Doctor is a man. A fact known but never really acknowledged with his character in definite; but men have urges, all of them, no matter what their character.
1. Chapter 1

The Doctor and Clara were no strangers to each other's bodies. Ten times, he had counted, ten sexual acts, all random, unconnected and plainly the most enjoyable things they had ever done together. It was clear that it was always desired and there was sexual tension in the TARDIS that you could cut with a knife, even if neither party mentioned the acts afterwards, but they never forgot them. Oh, the feel of her beneath him, her legs around his waist, or the feel of him pushing her to the ground and ridding her of her shorts, his warm breath between her legs …

Nine out of the ten times he counted, were full on fucking and one was oral, him to her. And aside from the sex their shared, one off kisses, the total met nineteen. Not forgetting that one time two minute makeout session. And the eye fucking, of course we mustn't forget the eye fucking.

The Doctor always seemed to be the fully and fancily dressed type, always neat, tidy and professional, but that was not always the case in the TARDIS. Often he would walk around the interior in pyjamas or a robe, and Clara would do the same. They were just _used _to each other. It was like two best friends sharing a house. Well, a big … timey wimey … spacey house. And there was no denying it, The Doctor may not have been human, but he was a man.

Like all men, The Doctor had urges in the night. And the morning. And the afternoon. Just … urges. Though he did hide them and he didn't always have then satisfied and often had to do the task by hand: thank god the TARDIS always locked his door. But he was getting tired of his professional manner that was a constant.

It was almost a ritual that at nights – or what nights could be in the TARDIS – that about an hour before retiring to bed the two would visit each other in their rooms and it was almost definite that they would share a bed each and every night. Both had been through so much and it helped to hold each other while they slept, a silent cry out, being with each other to keep the night terrors away.

It was during one of his visits to her room, late at night, ten-ish they thought, that he decided to drop the professional manner and just act like all men.

The Doctor was reading to Clara from the book she was reading, as she was busy, talking to friends online on her phone. She was reading The Casual Vacancy and so he was reading it to her – he didn't even hesitate to swear and say all of the sexual things the characters were saying, though he could at least make an effort and do the accents. But suddenly he closed the book and she looked up at him, frowning. His next words surprized her, though she did not show it.

'I want to have sex tonight, Clara.'

Clara raised her eyebrows. 'Okay then?' she said in question and he spoke no more, but she stayed sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest.

From that angle he had a good view down her tight top, and she wasn't wearing pants. Just a plain, tight vest top over her underwear. His warm, bare chest warmed up her cold back and his silky pyjama bottoms were soft against the skin of her legs. Finally she put her phone down and rolled onto her front, looking up at him through her lashes.

Clara had recently read a book – a book that was a mere spin off to a much longer and larger series, but the book was about a young girl who was a high class escort and from that she had learned a few tricks. The tone of voice she must use (the book had been made into a television series) and the faces she must make.

'What would you like to do?' she whispered, almost whispered, and she saw his eyebrows raise. Surely, he had not been expecting that, he'd been expecting her to laugh or exclaim in shop.

The Doctor cleared his throat and didn't move, but he felt a fluttering in his stomach at her voice and expression. He felt a tingling between his thighs and hoped she couldn't feel that things weren't as soft as they used to be.

What exactly _did _he want? He was randy, they hadn't done it in about a month and he hadn't wanked in about three days, but what did he _want_? There was one thing he hadn't done in over a hundred years, probably, and had _never _done with Clara. Trying to keep his tone light and casual and feeling a bit strange for saying it, he put on an expression of indifference.

'Well, I wouldn't say no to a blow job.'

Internally he cringed at his out of character words, but on the outside his face remained solid. Clara smirked at him and then she was gone.

At first he thought she had slid out of bed and onto the floor, but then he felt her hands sliding down his silk covered thighs, and suddenly they were at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and her mouth at his navel, kissing down over his V lines as her clever hands slid down his bottoms; he wasn't wearing underwear. Invisible to him, she kissed each hip bone once before surprizing him with the swiftness at which she took him into her mouth.

Small, sassy and adorably cute, but she could be so darn _sexual_. He didn't see her once while she was going, but he felt her all the time and he felt his nails digging into her sheets and his head against the wall, trying not to make a sound as she kept going and going and going until he came, and she didn't let a drop escape her.

What's the difference between a dove and a swallow? One's the bird of peace, the other of true love, if you know what I'm saying.

And then she was up again, straddling him, and he could feel her heat through her thin knickers over his groin. She was as turned on as he was, and he was already growing hard again.

Then he pressed forward and he kissed her roughly and his hands were on her sides. She pushed him back against the head of her bed and kissed him back hungrily as his hands roamed up her sides under her top, pushing it up somewhat, and he undid her bra.

It escalated quickly. They were both fully unclothed and he had flipped her beneath him, then he was in there and it felt _so _good. And they had never used a condom or any other form of contraception, these random bouts of fucking were never planned.

There were no sounds other than Clara's pleasured whimpers and moans and high pitched callings of his name, his true name, which she had known since Tranzalore, and The Doctor's almost animal yells and shouts as they went faster and faster, him pounding in from behind now, having flipped them onto their sides, facing one wall.

And then they came together with the loudest cries and groans yet and then collapsed side by side, the blankets barely covering their legs as their sweat covered chests rose up and down in the darkness.

And then sleep came, to both of them, one at a time, and when Clara awoke in the morning The Doctor was gone and her discarded top and underwear folded at the end of her bed. They never spoke of what they did, both were often ashamed of embarrassed by the wild, loud, filthy love they made together, but neither one ever forgot it.

_Eleven times_, The Doctor thought to himself as he crept from her room in the early hours of the morning. _And I still haven't told her how much I love her. _


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm not sure where this bit is going or what it'll turn into, I never really intended to continue but I've had people ask me to, so I am. Gawd, fangirls are more demanding than my editor! (I'm a professional; published four times in the past year, two books from each of my two main series ^_^) So since I'm friendly and nice and basically have all the time in the world, I decided to oblige. My next book deadline isn't until March and I was two months early with my last … so, yah! Here goes nothing!**

Some days in the TARDIS it was almost like a home, a regular house. Sure, the TARDIS had all those weird rooms and winding corridors, but it had normal rooms too and no less than sixteen kitchens. Well, fifteen. The oven sort of blew up in one when Clara was distracted from her baking by a certain Timelord doing certain things.

Today was one of those regular days, even though the atmosphere was quite frosty. Clara had awoken alone _again_ and was getting tired of The Doctor's ways, the way he avoided ever mentioning anything that went on behind closed doors. She couldn't stop her mind wandering back to the events of the night yet she tried her damndest to lest she become too soft upon seeing him for the first time that day. She sat alone on a sofa in one of the many living rooms, watching a DVD from some boxset of some series of some show based on some book series that in her time hadn't come out yet. Well, one of the books had, maybe two, but she didn't know them.

This episode amused Clara. It was the fourth episode of the second half of a series, and at the very beginning of it, she burst out laughing. One of the characters, a fierce looking green-eyed girl with black hair, was upset with her … boyfriend, was it? She didn't know. But she thought so. Anyway, the character was upset with her boyfriend for reasons similar to Clara's upset with The Doctor; the man had simply become passive and ignored every mention or hint of the sexual relationship the two had. Clara once had the idea to do what that girl was doing: Scream at him and get angry and stomp her foot while yelling, "Why won't you talk about it!?". Ask him if her regretted it or was ashamed, something of the sort. But Clara knew she never would.

Meanwhile in some other part of the TARDIS, The Doctor was up, alert and looking around. He had a whole day planned for the two of them. He had spent most of the morning looking up planets in books, some real, some … he didn't even know if they existed or not, but they could have fun seeing if they were. But he hadn't laid eyes on Clara since he had left her sleeping with a guilty feeling inside his chest, like two snakes winding their way around his hearts. Perhaps she was still there, sleeping? Humans slept much longer than Timelords, and some humans longer than other humans. But he checked her bedroom, and she wasn't there.

The Doctor spent some time looking for Clara before he found her, scowling at a television. He didn't know what she was watching. There was some guy on screen and he was on fire, but the flames were blue, a woman was crying and the sky was black with smoke. The grass was blue. He sat down next to Clara, and she shifted right to the edge of the couch.

That wasn't good.

'Clara?' She looked up at him moodily and raised her eyebrows without speaking. 'Is something wrong?'

'No, nothing _wrong_,' Clara said, and her tone made The Doctor feel uneasy.

Neither of them spoke for a while, and it wasn't an easy silence, as the TV show continued to play on to the end, which it reached in about three minutes, and then there was commentary done by one of the main actors who hadn't been in the show since the first half of the series, and then Clara turned off the television with a sharp push of a button on the remote. She dropped it to the ground and continued to glare at the blank screen.

Neither one of them knew how long they sat there, but it was probably a while, and The Doctor was a loss for words, not knowing what was wrong with her. It seemed like half an hour before Clara had stopped scowling and was just staring at the blank screen with her arms folded across her chest, but seeing her face neutral gave The Doctor new hope that he wouldn't have his head bitten off if he tried to speak to her.

'Clara?'

'What do you want, Doctor?'

Her tone was flat and cold as she turned to look at him with an uninterested expression.

'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'For whatever I did.'

'Do you know what you did?'

'No.'

The Doctor was being honest, mostly. He had a hunch, but it was probably wrong. He was never right about humans. Or women of any species. He just wasn't … _good _with that kind of thing. Why did this regeneration have to be such a lovable idiot? And was it bad that she wasn't saying anything?

'Clara–'

'You know most men,' Clara but across him, her voice raised ever so slightly, 'would be boasting every day about what we've done. _Most _men,' she spoke louder still, 'would take it in their stride.'

So, she w_as _talking about that. He'd had it right. He winced internally; he did not want to have this conversation. He thought he was avoiding it by avoiding any of the weird … after _it _stuff. But he knew he couldn't avoid it forever, and so he would try to forget who he was, what he was like, he would try and be those … other men. And explain why he was not like them.

'I'm not most men,' said The Doctor. 'Do I even _look _like most men?'

'Apart from the chin, yeah, you do.'

'Alright. So I might look like most men, but do most men you meet have a big blue box that travels in time and space?'

'No.'

'Have you been inside the time stream of most men?'

'No.'

'Have most men lost what I have? And you _know _what I've lost because you've seen my _whole _life.'

'No.'

'I'm not most men.'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.'

They both spoke quickly and matter-of-factly. There was another silence, punctuated by only heavy breathing, but it was shorter and less tense than the last and when The Doctor broke it, Clara didn't try and stop him.

'I'm the one that should be sorry.' She looked at him questioningly and he pressed on. 'I know it was stupid to just … leave … all the time, but I'm not good at this stuff. My head is all wibbly wobbly … timey wimey. I didn't know what else to do.'

'Then why didn't you just say?'

'I felt stupid. Which is pretty rare for me, I'm the cleverest person I've ever met.'

This made Clara laugh, and The Doctor swelled with happiness and relief inside. There was a short, light silence once more and they both grinned to themselves, hands almost touching on middle of the couch, and Clara edged over towards him.

'I'm sorry. I should have realized.'

Clara hugged him and he hugged her, rubbing her back before she pulled away. But as she bent in to give him a swift peck on the cheek, he felt a new confidence, and he kissed her lips, long and lingering and proper.

There were two ways that could have went. They could have sat and smiled at each other and then went off on some adventure, or they could have continued and gone at it right there on the couch. And surprisingly and not surprisingly all at once, that's what they did, but this time neither one slept afterwards and The Doctor did not leave. He lay there with her head on his chest, his arm around her, stroking her cheek as she lay with her eyes open, staring at the opposite wall.

'_This _is what I want,' Clara said at last, breaking the silence as if answering an unasked question. 'That's all. This is all you have to do.'

'What, this?' The Doctor asked. 'This is easy.' He let out a breathless laugh and kissed the top of her head.

Things changed from then on. It was like … something had been broken, cleanly cut away, and not they could just be … open. And they did do it again. And again. And again. Just whenever. Forwhatever reason. It was almost like another unasked question, almost like they were together or something. They even kissed in public, and Clara was not always the one to be doing the kissing. If she was being brilliant, The Doctor showed her with his soft lips on hers, and he wasn't ashamed of it. Was that what it was to almost feel human?

And eventually he said the words. The words he had thought so often and ignored, sometimes even feared, and when he at last said them, she didn't hesitate a second to say them right back.

The End


End file.
